


i think you make it better

by dandelins



Category: To All the Boys I've Loved Before Series - Jenny Han, To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before (2018)
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, Fluff, Romance, ft. cooking and food fights with more to come, the movie is so cute i cry, this is every fluffy rom-com trope bundled together istg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-07-03 07:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15814341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelins/pseuds/dandelins
Summary: Perched on the kitchen counter, Lara Jean closes her eyes and basks in the sun, enjoying the way the breeze brushes past her face. She can smell the cinnamon sugar, heaped neatly in a bowl, and the warm scent of the yeast. When she looks at him again, there's a sort of unbearable fondness to his expression, a tilt to his lips and a softness around the corners of his eyes. Strangely shy, she ducks away from his stare, brushing away some of the flour dusted on his face.or alternatively: five times Lara Jean and Peter were together and one time they weren't.





	1. Chapter 1

1\. Lara Jean’s kitchen, early afternoon

 

There's flour on the tip of his nose, in his hair, on his cheeks, but she doesn't want to interrupt his stare off with the dough. His tongue peeks out slightly as he carefully kneads it, grimacing at how it clings to his palms.

 

'Is it meant to be so sticky?' he complains half-heartedly, holding up his hands.

 

'Yes, Peter.'

 

'But are you sure-'

 

_'Yes, Peter.'_

 

'Alright, alright,' he says, mock-obsequious. He grins at her, and even now it makes her heart stutter, just for a second. 'You got it, boss lady.'

 

Perched on the kitchen counter, Lara Jean closes her eyes and basks in the sun, enjoying the way the breeze brushes past her face. She can smell the cinnamon sugar, heaped neatly in a bowl, and the warm scent of the yeast. When she looks at him again, there's a sort of unbearable fondness to his expression, a tilt to his lips and a softness around the corners of his eyes. Strangely shy, she ducks away from his stare, brushing away some of the flour dusted on his face.

 

'You've got a little something there,' she murmurs, breaking into laughter as he tugs her in by her belt loops.

 

'Aren't you supposed to be helping me, chef?' he teases. 'You're too distracting for this, Lara Jean'.

 

'I'm too distracting—I'm not even doing anything!'

 

'It's enough to just be here,' he says. 'Hey—what did you say these things were called again?'

 

'Hotteok.'

 

There's a brief pause.

 

'Lara Jean, no offense, I don't think cinnamon sugar pairs well with hot dogs.'

 

'Not hot dog, nimrod, _hotteok_.'

 

'Nimrod!' he crows delightedly. 'You really are an 80-year-old, aren't you?'

 

There's a muffled protest from Lara Jean where she's crushed against his chest, his floury arms wrapped around her. He only chuckles in response to her glare, the warm, rich sound she loves so much.

 

'It's okay. You’re the cutest 80-year-old around. You put the others to shame.'

 

She bats at him lightly, pushing away so she can reach the olive oil. Taking his hands, she tips some onto them, ignoring his yelp of protest.

 

‘Stops the dough sticking to your hands,' she explains with a roll of her eyes. She flattens her own dough ball into a circle, methodically spreading it until it's bigger than her palm. In the middle goes a spoonful of sugar and cinnamon and chopped nuts, before the dough is folded over itself, forming an only slightly lopsided blob. She knows this recipe like the back of her hand—with it comes the sound of her mother's voice, her sisters' laughter, the sounds of the city as she gazes at the street vendors, starry-eyed.

 

Peter nudges her side, and she must have spaced out, because even without looking she can imagine the slight pout on his face. They're so close that she can feel his warmth beside her, and his worn t-shirt grazes her arms when he moves.

 

'Lara Jean,' he begins.

 

'I'll pay attention to you, Peter,' she finishes, before he can continue.

 

He looks indignant. 'Hey! I just wanted to know what to do next,' and—oh, there's definitely a slight sulk in his voice. In apology, she reaches up to brush her lips against his cheek, grimacing when she gets a dusting of flour for her efforts. She can't be too upset though, not with the shyly pleased look on his face.

 

He looks less pleased with the handful of flour that she blows into his face.

 

She has to admit, she hadn't meant to use quite so much, but the absolute outrage written on his powdery face has her keeling over onto the cool kitchen tiles, laughing so hard no sound comes out. She crouches there, wiping tears away.

 

Before she can collect herself, there's— _whoomph_.

 

Flour spills everywhere, coating the kitchen and her in a fine layer of dust. She sneezes when the powder tickles her nose, and reaches for the counter. Peter has the container dangling loosely from his hand, but to his credit, there's an underlying guilty look behind his reckless smirk as he wiggles his eyebrows at her, challenging.

 

With her best stab at a blank-faced stare, Lara Jean turns back to the mixing bowl and picks up more of the dough, making sure she gets all the really sticky bits along the side where they didn't mix the flour and water together properly. She spins around to face him again, making sure to keep her expression as neutral as possible.

 

'Can you come here, Peter? We should probably start getting these ready to fry,' she says innocently, batting her lashes just a little. He looks uncertain, but carefully edges closer. The second he's in range, she tackles him, wiping her hands on his T-shirt gleefully.

 

'Hey! Covey, knock it off!' he scolds, but his eyes are gleaming and his hand is already outstretched to snag the cinnamon on the counter.

 

Lara Jean tries to dodge, but his arms wrap around her tightly and she squeaks, an embarrassing noise she'll deny later until she's blue in the face. The world around her smells like sugar and spices, even though she can feel the clumps of dough in her hair.

 

'Truce, LJ?' Peter asks, and she shivers at the feeling of his warm breath on her neck.

 

'Give me three to five business days to consider your proposal,' she begins, and immediately cuts herself off when he playfully reaches for an innocuous carton of eggs that she had forgotten to pack away.

 

'Okay, okay! Truce, _trucetrucetruce_ —'

 

'There we go,' he says, putting the eggs back down, smiling smugly over his victory. He’s still holding her close, so she coughs only a little awkwardly and squirms out of his embrace, skin tingling. The sun is still bright in the sky, sending streams of light blanketing over them. She remembers all the other times they’ve been in her kitchen together, and she thinks gratefully that she’d never want to give any of those memories up.

 

They get the dough in the pan, and she shows him how to squish the balls flat. He hops onto a clear spot on the kitchen counter and watches intently, commentating on her every move like it’s a sports match.

 

‘And she goes for the flip—’

 

He’s quiet for a second.

 

‘Well, she didn’t have luck on her side for this round, folks.’

 

When he gets bored of that, he comes up behind her to peer over her shoulder instead, and she tries to answer his questions, even when he asks things she doesn’t know.

 

‘Why’s it got that sticky-out bit at the edge?’

 

‘I’m, uh, not really sure, actually.’

 

‘Hey Siri—'

 

Finally, there's a neat stack of sweet pancakes in front of them, some of them with delicate crusts of syrup where the dough hadn't folded together completely. Carefully wrapping one in paper, she plops down on the ground, still covered in ingredients, before she hands one to Peter and tugs him down next to her, blowing on it gently. She watches him take a bite. Traces the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows.

 

His eyes widen.

 

'Lara Jean, holy shit-'

 

She breaks out in laughter, unable to help herself at the crush of emotions crowding his face, before he settles on something between betrayal and awe.

 

'You've so been holding out on me! What other holy recipes do you know, you have to tell me all of them—stop laughing, I'm serious!'

 

His tone is accusing, but he's laughing too, now, open and genuine. He takes another huge bite of his hotteok, making obnoxious groaning noises as Lara Jean claps her hand over her mouth to stifle her giggling. She's breathless and red-faced and she’s almost certain that there's dough down her shirt, but Peter has syrup around his mouth and although he managed to brush off most of the remnants of their brief battle, his left cheek looks like some liberally went to town with baby powder—in this moment, she thinks she could stay. She thinks something about this feels like forever.

 

That's how her family finds them, sitting amongst piles of flour, leaning against the kitchen cabinets and munching enthusiastically on hotteok. There are immediate complaints from Kitty about how _she_ never gets to have food fights, Dad, how come Lara Jean gets to have them, but they're quickly quashed by a sticky-sweet offering. Margot seems on the verge of teetering into Lecture Mode, but she deflates and sits down to join her sisters, grabbing her own share off the plate. Her dad looks less annoyed than he should for someone who's stumbled across this trainwreck of a kitchen, and he just pats Lara Jean on the head and smiles before teasingly reminding her that she'd be cleaning it up.

 

It's later, when she and Peter are tidying the kitchen, that he pipes up again. The flour's almost completely gone, and there are only a few traces of sticky dough left.

 

'Hey Lara Jean, it's a pity we didn't get to keep going earlier on.'

 

'Why's that?'

 

'Well, I'm sure it would've been an _egg-cellent eggs-perience_ , that's all.'

 

For that one, she really does throw an egg at him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -hotteok is incredible + oil really does help it stop sticking to your hands just don't go overboard   
> -this is one of the first things I’ve written in literal years so don’t expect much pls I am very nervous  
> -thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who left those lovely comments on the last chapter, thank you so much! I'd like to go through them individually, but your support means a lot to me. Sorry for the ridiculous wait - I had exams, my phone flipped out on me and I lost a good chunk of writing, and things built up until I forgot about this fic yikes
> 
> I'll be pretty surprised if anyone's still waiting on this, but if you are, here you go!

2\. lacrosse pitch, morning

Peter watches Lara Jean yawn out of the corner of his eye, smirking. The early mornings were a struggle for him, too, but after years of gruelling trainings and hasty breakfasts he began to enjoy the dew glistening on the fresh-cut pitch, the gradual lightening of the sky, the quiet hum that settled around them with the absence of honking cars. 

He stretches his arms up, enjoying the pull of his muscles as his body loosen up—and the way he can see Lara Jean eyeing him. He knows she’ll blame the flush creeping up her cheeks on the cold, but hey, a guy can dream. 

‘LJ!’ he calls out, twirling his lacrosse stick in his hands. He can feel an involuntary grin tugging the corners of his mouth up as she startles, briefly alert before she half-sinks back into a sleepy haze. ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa, that’s not happening. You promised you’d practice with me, Covey.’ He presses another stick into her hand, the net smaller than his own. He lets his fingers close over her hand for a brief, lingering moment, enjoying the simple touch connecting them.

'Hmpghfph.'

'That's great, Lara Jean.'

'Mmmph.'

'Sure, sure. C'mon, just run up to goal and try to fire a few shots on me, hey?'

After he gently ushers her back past the goal area, she seems to perk up a little, her competitive spirit kicking back into play. He can see it in the set of her shoulders and her posture, and the little dip between her brows as she narrows her eyes at him. He's taught her parts of his sport before—just simple things, like how to estimate the distance for a pass or how to cradle her stick when she ran. Today, though, he's hoping to get in some actual practice. Lara Jean's aim isn't...well. It isn't anything to celebrate over, but she has a mean throw, and he's proud of her anyway. 

He jams his helmet on over his messy hair, and readies himself, watching her carefully as she zigzags up to goal, dodging around imaginary defenders. He had pulled up to her house in the morning and rang the doorbell, but it had been Kitty that let him in. Dr Covey—Dan, he reminds himself, had left for an emergency, and Margot had been sitting at the kitchen table, reading a novel. He wasn't sure how much Margot liked him, but he greeted her politely. The Song girls were close—everyone knew that, and he wanted to get along with Lara Jean's sisters too. 

When Lara Jean had stumbled down the stairs sleepily, she had still been in her pajamas. He couldn't convince her to get changed as she almost fell straight into him, burying her face in his shirt as his heart did a strange sort of tap dance in his chest. He had at least managed to bundle her into a coat and coax her into eating some toast before he had shepherded her out of the door and into his car, calling a goodbye. 

She was still in those pajamas; teddy-printed pants and a pink tank top underneath a fluffy woollen coat. Her hair was tied back with a scrunchie to keep it out of her face as she ran. He had wrangled her favourite back from Gen, feeling guilty he had ever let her take it in the first place. Lara Jean made her own scrunchies, too—he had seen them often enough tying up her long, dark ponytail or wrapped around her sisters' hair. She was so genuine and witty and kind, always herself and refusing to let other people belittle her for it. She was really close to him now, closer than she had been before—

He gasps for breath as the ball socked him in the gut. It wasn't even particularly painful, but even through the protective padding, he could feel the impact and winced internally. God, that was probably going to bruise. He stumbles back, and felt the ground rushing up towards him resignedly as he tripped over his shoelace.

'Peter!' Lara Jean shrieks, now definitely, absolutely awake. 'Peter, are you okay?'

She pats at his chest and stomach frantically. 'Where does it hurt? Oh shit, I'm so so sorry, do you want me to get you some ice or, or a doctor or—'

'Lara Jean!' he laughed, still a bit wheezy. Hr pulls his helmet off, and the gear after it. 'I'm fine. A doctor, really?'

She's calmer now, her nose scrunched up and her eyes dark and concerned. She slumps to the ground to join him, covering her face with her hands. 'I thought I killed you,' she moans, hunching over onto herself. 'This was a terrible idea, my aim's going to be awful forever.'

'You’re no quitter, Covey,' Peter replies mock-sternly. 'It's not your fault, Lara Jean, I—uh,' he coughs awkwardly. 'I wasn't paying attention and I tripped over my shoelaces.' 

She stares at him.

And keep staring at him.

Then, she breaks out into hysterical laughter, almost crying from how hard she's giggling. 'You—' she wheezes, pointing at him. 'Tripped? Over your shoelaces?'

'Hey!' Peter objects, feeling a little injured now—emotionally. 'It's not that funny!'

'Yes it is!'

'Is not.'

'Is too!'

Eventually, she relaxes back against the goal post, her shoulders still shaking as she stifles her laughter. 'Why were you distracted in the first place?' she teases. 'Dazzled by my good looks, K?'

'Yes,' he replies seriously, looking at her. 'I was, actually.'

That finally stops her laughter, and Peter wishes he had brought his camera with him, because it's a classic Lara Jean expression. Eyes wide open, lips slightly parted, looking flabbergasted and joyous and shy and bold all at once. She looks down, ducking her head. Her scrunchie has started to fall out and he tugs it loose, pulling it onto his wrist. 

'I really am sorry about hitting you, Peter,' she says, sincere. 'I didn't mean to.'

He sighs dramatically. 'It hurts, Covey,' he groans, flinging himself back on the grass. He puts enough of a whine into his voice to let her know he's joking, and it seems to work, because he hears her snort and there's a rustle of fabric as she moves to sit next to him.

'Kiss it better?' he jokes, gauging her reaction. He expects her to laugh it off, to tease him for collapsing backwards like one of those Victorian-era noblewomen from those books she loves so much. Maybe to offer to grab him some fries on the way home, or bake an apology cake. What he doesn't expect is for her to shrug and lean over, so she can brush a kiss onto the spot where she had accidentally hit him, just through his T-shirt. 

He can feel his face turning firetruck red already, but he's come this far. 'I think you might have hit me somewhere else too, LJ,' he pouts at her, playing it up. She sighs, but there's something fond in it. He taps his lips with a finger. 

'Kiss me again?'

There's no else around except for the family of birds perched in a tree several metres away, but she seems hesitant. He sits up, ready to dismiss it and move on. 'It's okay, Lara Jean, I just—whoa!'

She pushes him back down on the grass, her lips soft and tasting of the strawberry chapstick she's been so partial too lately. He's never liked putting the fruit-flavoured ones on himself, but it seems so much more appealing when he's kissing it from her mouth. He can feel her straddling him now, her body warm against his in stark contrast to the dew that's seeping into the back of his T-shirt, but he can't bring himself to care, not when the whole world has narrowed down to just the two of them. 

She pulls away, cheeks hot, and he props himself up on his elbows. 'Whoa,' he says, dazed. This close, he can see her long eyelashes fan across her cheek when she blinks, the sparkle in her warm brown eyes, can feel the hitch in her breath. 

'Damn, Covey.'

'Good game, Kavinsky.'

'I'll say.'

She thumps his shoulder gently, rolling her eyes and getting to her feet. He's got half a mind to pull her back down, but his powers of reasoning come back online. He accepts the hand she offers to pull him up and collects his gear. Tucking everything under one arm, he reaches out his free hand, catching hers and twining their fingers together. 

'Will you bake something for me?' he asks cheekily, putting on his best pleading expression.

'Don't push your luck, Peter,' she responds immediately, but she tucks herself against his side as they trudge back to his car. 

She gives in when she sees that yes, a faint purple-blue bruise forms on his side. He kisses her again, and she tastes like chocolate.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't edited, so let me know if there are any glaring mistakes. Is there anything you want to see in the next chapters? I have some plans, but I'm open to ideas :) Hope you enjoy!

3\. corner café, afternoon

They're at the diner again, tucked away at their usual table. Warm light bathes Peter’s face in gold, painted on the planes of his face. His eyes are molten honey, and he scruffs a hand through his hair, furrowing his brow as he reads over the passage again, mouthing the words to himself. For once, he’s not loose-limbed and sprawling; less big gestures, and more tension knotting his shoulders as he bites on the straw poking out of his milkshake absent-mindedly.

She wants to reach out and caress his face, run her hands through his hair, feel his shoulders loosen under her fingers, but there are enough people around that she doesn’t. She nudges their shared plate closer to him over the table, stacked with one of her favourite lemon cakes and his brownies. He glances up at her and makes the face again, the one where it’s just an involuntary twitch of his lips and a slight quirk of his brow, like he can’t stop himself. She’s glad to see him relax a little, mirroring his smile. Tapping he fingers on his textbook to prompt him to move his arms, she slides it out from underneath him and turns it so she can see the pages. 

There are notes in his scratchy handwriting, the ink bleeding through where he’s written over a word again and again. A doodle sits in the top right of the page, a misshapen lacrosse stick, and she thinks she sees a little stick figure that might be her waving next to it before Peter casually reaches across and covers it with his hand, stretching out on the table and avoiding her eyes. 

‘Help me?’ he asks, his eyes wide as he peeks at her through his lashes. 

He's playing cute, and she knows it, but there's an undercurrent of exhaustion to his voice. They've already been working for two hours, and there are less people in the cafe already as people start to pack up and go home, to dinner, to work, back to their bustling lives and leaving behind the golden oasis with no more of a goodbye than the tinkle of the chimes hung above the door. Peter usually works hard in school—with the exception of that one Spanish test in seventh grade—keeping up with electron configurations and definite integrals and Shakespeare's tragedies, but the flurry of college applications and lacrosse training has left him tired and lagging behind. 

Peter's smart—he always has been. School doesn't always come naturally to him, but he tries his best and usually reaps the benefits. This latest Chemistry topic though—Lara Jean has to admit that she had to call in the cavalry to understand all the finicky details. Her dad looked over her questions, glasses perched firmly on his nose as he chewed on the cap of his pen while Margot drew out diagrams and explanations on rolls of butcher's paper in crayon as Lara Jean's study playlist poured from her tinny laptop speakers. Kitty munched on caramel popcorn as she sat on the kitchen counter, and occasionally threw pieces at them, claiming moral support. 

It was more than science that was weighing on him though—on both of them. Something unspoken hangs in the air between them, when Peter talks about how great the UVA campus was, when Lara Jean pulls up maps for UNC. Neither of them knows what lays ahead of them, and it makes her stomach squirm, a niggling, traitorous voice in the back of her head whispering that he would one day leave her too. Her skin prickles, and there is a strange lump in her throat, but the shift of Peter's gaze from playful to worried dragged her out of her reverie. She took a deep, only slightly shaky breath, steeling herself. 

No more, Lara Jean, she tells herself sternly. She might not be able to fix everything, solve every problem, predict every future—but she could draw out a hydrocarbon chain for her boyfriend. The only sounds between them for a beat are the scratch of pencil on paper, steady breaths, the clink of a fork against the plate.

'It's like this,' she starts. 'The carbonyl group should be there...yes, that's right. And what makes it a carboxylic acid? Good, Peter. See? You're fine.'

He looks a little more cheerful—she knows how he's always pleased with praise, less confident than he really seems. Sometimes, all people need are a pick-me-up, whether it's a phone call, dinner with a best friend, a night with a romance novel. It's not always enough, but she's always believed in how powerful words can be. She's started to make it a point to express her thoughts verbally, telling him when she likes his shirt or cheering every successful save. Words have always come so much easier to her on paper, whether she's writing with ink or graphite or, on one memorable occasion, Margot's favourite lipstick. They gave her a voice, crafted from love letters and looping cursive, but she always seemed to plummet when her thoughts left her in stammered sentences and sweaty palms. With Peter, though, words came easier than they ever had before. It's nice to sit here at their familiar table, the slightest breeze wending its way around them through the open window. It's nice to see him like this, softer and more vulnerable than he is when other people are around.

Her leg brushed against his under the table, and then again when she tries to move it out of the way. Slowly, he raises his head to stare at her, amusement shining in his eyes. 

‘Everything okay, Lara Jean?’ he drawls out, abandoning his pen to lean back against his seat. 

She leans forward, this time. ‘Sure, Peter K,’ she grins, leaning forwards and pecking him on the lips. ‘Right now? Everything’s perfect.’

The memory of his surprised face and subsequent flush keeps her warm, even hours after he drops her back at her front door.


End file.
